


winnings and weddings

by shestepsintotheriver



Series: non-human Jaskier [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Engagement, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Minor Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Weddings, competitions, everything is a bit happier and much less serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26193979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shestepsintotheriver/pseuds/shestepsintotheriver
Summary: Jaskier and Geralt have to pretend to be engaged.Surprisingly, it's Geralt's idea.Everything is simultaneously the most hare-brained scheme and the most thorough production in the world.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: non-human Jaskier [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785946
Comments: 553
Kudos: 1624
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Just.... So cute..., Why Hello There Significant Other of Mine





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i gave you Accidental Husbands  
> now i give you Fake Husbands¨  
> because Why Not
> 
> i know i'm not supposed to be writing fic right now because of my thesis and if i have to write, i should be working on 'remember me, i sing', but hear me out: i have absolutely no control over myself DONT LOOK AT ME. besides, this will be a short one, just four-five chapters i think 
> 
> i know it's not immediately obvious what Jaskier is, but it'll come up, i promise!

It’s all Lambert’s fault.

In the winter, the Witchers of Kaer Morhen gather to wait out the snow and the cold. It’s rare for Geralt to see his brothers on the road, and so, reconvening at the end of the year is something he always looks forward to. A few months of peace and quiet—and absolutely no one throwing stones at them for daring to exist within sight of their little hamlet.

One downside to going back, however, is that routine can only do so much to fill their days, especially when the snow piles high and traps them inside. Bored Witchers trapped in tight quarters make for… interesting results. Which is how the annual Witcher winter games (none of them were creative enough to come up with a better name) were founded. Or rather, Vesemir made them up, mostly to “keep you idiots out of my hair, gods-fucking-dammit, _who had the bright idea to play the floor is lava with burning oil._ ”

(It was Lambert’s idea, and Geralt and Eskel were quick to snitch on him.)

The games have several activities, most of which are completed at Kaer Morhen—archery, wrestling, high-stakes gwent, those kinds of things. But the most important activity by far is the surprise challenge, as decided by the winner of that year’s games which this year is Lambert (it was also Lambert last year, and Geralt and Eskel have made a pact to beat him next year, or they’ll have to murder him and bury him in the woods, he’ll be that unbearable.)

Which brings us back to why this is all Lambert’s fault.

*

See, Geralt had kind of… forgotten about the challenge. Did so on his first day back on the Path, in fact, as it involved a whole nest of bruxae, a lovesick werewolf, and the ill-timed birth of a baby, all in one job. Almost immediately after that, Jaskier had to go and get embroiled in a civil war (can it be called a civil war when it’s just two villages throwing stones back and forth?), and Geralt couldn’t just leave him there. 

Point is, he has had other things to worry about than the winter games. 

Is that excuse going to fly with his brothers? That’d be a ‘no’. Geralt won’t even try.

The day Geralt is rudely reminded of the games is a gentle autumn day. The leaves have long since turned golden and fallen from the trees, the harvest has been brought in, and preparations for the winter months are underway.

He’s having a good day. Just sitting in a tavern, minding his business, and having some ale. The villagers largely leave him alone, not because they’re scared of him, but because his presence simply doesn’t trouble them. He has Jaskier to thank for that; Jaskier and his tireless campaigning for Geralt’s reputation (those are not Geralt’s words. Three guesses as to whom they belong to.)

Geralt will never tell him this, of course, but if he did, Jaskier would be pleased to know that his hard work pays off even when he himself is not in attendance. He’s back in Oxenfurt, has been for a few months now (something about ‘inducting the children into the brave world of bardistry, even if I have to make strings from their guts’, meaning Jaskier has teaching duties that he’s been unable to weasel out of and he’s severely displeased by this).

Geralt doesn’t miss him, exactly. It’s just that they usually spend autumn together, and the change to their routine is… upsetting. It means he won’t be seeing Jaskier again until spring. It’ll be the longest they’ve been separated for almost half a decade now. Geralt doesn’t like it.

No, it has nothing to do with Jaskier being his (best) friend. Nor does it have anything to do with Geralt’s more… personal attachment to him (if he doesn’t acknowledge those attachments, they can’t influence him and thus will not trouble him. He’s handling this with aplomb.)

He’s on his third ale when he overhears some travellers squabbling peacefully in the corner of the tavern. One yells, “what do you _mean_ you got married while abroad?” and the other yells back, “ _surprise_!”

It’s the ‘surprise’ that has dread taking immediate hold in Geralt. Suddenly, he’s not in the tavern, but across the Continent and some nine months back, listening to Lambert proclaim, “Alright, bastardly brothers and dishonourable losers, next year’s surprise challenge will be to bring back the biggest surprise—and no Law of Surprising yourself out of this, _Geralt_. No, Ciri doesn’t count either, you can’t bring a retroactive surprise, and besides, she wants to compete, too.”

Nine months later, Geralt hasn’t spared a thought to the challenge whatsoever, and in just one short month, he’ll be climbing the mountain trail to Kaer Morhen. He’ll have no surprise with him, and unless Eskel (or Ciri) pulls something truly magnificent out their asses, Lambert is going to win again, _and the world as they know it will end_ (… probably not, but Geralt will want it to, to escape Lambert’s gloating.)

He sits in complete and utter panic for a few minutes. Which, of course, does not look particularly panicked to an outsider, but if Jaskier were here, he’d be able to discern the too-neutral expression on Geralt’s face and know in an instant that everything was going to hell.

“I can’t believe you got married without sending word,” one traveller keeps harping.

And the other says, “Well, that’s because it was a _surprise._ ”

And Geralt gets an idea.

A terribly, awful, hare-brained idea born of the sheer terror of letting his little brother get one over him ( _again,_ _again_ ), and cheating to boot, but he doesn’t even try to come up with anything better. He pays his tab, stalks (Jaskier would call it _runs_ ) out of the bar, saddles up Roach, and rides directly for Oxenfurt.

He’s got a bard to propose a scheme to.

*

Due to many years’ friendship (and no, Jaskier, it doesn’t strain Geralt to admit this… after two and half decades of denying it), Geralt is familiar with the layout of Oxenfurt. His presence only causes a stir among newcomers, who do a doubletake and either freeze or flee. The long-timers just shrug it off—they do get out of his way, but that’s got more to do with the wild-eyed look on his face than who and what he is.

He tracks down Jaskier’s classroom with ease. First by scent, then by sound. Both of which carry distinct traces of annoyance.

“—thank you, for that unique interpretation of _Lady Joanna,_ ” Jaskier is saying in a tone of voice that makes it clear that ‘unique interpretation’ is the politer wording of ‘complete bollocking’, “but let’s get back to our original point—”

Normally, Geralt doesn’t come barging in when Jaskier is teaching. Oxenfurt is an interesting city, and usually, he can occupy himself just fine while waiting. This time, he cannot afford to wait (or, he probably can, but he hasn’t made a well-thought-out decision in days), and so, he throws the door open and storms in.

The students gasp, even shriek. Must be first-years.

Geralt doesn’t even glance at them. His eyes are fixed on Jaskier, dressed in his professorial robes (well, the robe itself is draped over a chair, but he’s at least still wearing the jerkin and trousers that match the robe. His barely-patient storm-cloud expression clears at once. (Geralt’s heart does not jump in his chest, but it does do an unusual _lub-a-dub-dub_. Must be heartburn. Tavern stews cannot be trusted.)

“Geralt!” he exclaims and throws himself at him. Geralt catches him around the waist, a move that has been perfected so as to keep Jaskier from getting hurt. If Jaskier chooses to interpret that as ‘hugging back’, Geralt is not going to dissuade him. Also: it is a little bit like hugging back. He tightens his arms to steady them both.

Nostrils full of Jaskier’s warm, comforting scent, he almost forgets why he’s sought him out. It doesn’t come back to him until after Jaskier has pulled away and started introducing him to the class as “my muse, and hero of the Continent, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf of Kaer Morhen,” and a dozen other aggrandizing titles. 

“Geralt, do you have any wisdom to impart on our future… lords and ladies?” Jaskier asks with barely a pause. For someone born of the nobility himself, Jaskier has a deep and passionate distaste for teaching others of his station (“most of them don’t even care to distinguish between minor and major, Geralt, they’re utterly uncultured but think they know everything!”)

Geralt looks at the gathering of finely dressed students. “Don’t do what Jaskier did.”

“Because obviously my singular talent and exquisite charm cannot be replicated,” Jaskier adds, mock-glowering at Geralt.

Geralt doesn’t follow that up with anything, just raises his brow and hums a single note that nonetheless communicates a very sarcastic _yes, that’s exactly why_. Jaskier masks his outrage well, but Geralt can tell he’ll be getting an earful later. (If Geralt looks forward to that, it’s only because he’s been apart from Jaskier for too long and needs to be reminded of the bard’s more annoying traits.)

“Not that I’m not overjoyed to see you, but why are you here?” Jaskier asks in an undertone, hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

“We need to talk.”

“Ominous. Please let it be pressing, I’m just about ready to tear my hair out dealing with these people. But even then, unless someone is actively dying, it’ll still have to wait until class is over.”

“Hmm.”

“That’s non-negotiable.”

“ _Hmm_.”

“I agree, but the answer is still ‘not now’. So, are you staying for the rest of class, or?”

Geralt takes his place at Jaskier’s shoulder and glowers at the students who don’t pay Jaskier enough attention. It’s quite amusing. The smile Jaskier smothers says he enjoys it, too.

*

Because Jaskier can’t do anything, not even receive possibly bad news, without first setting the scene, he manages to drag Geralt all the way across university grounds to his favourite dining establishment. He orders them a slew of courses and plenty to drink, and gets through the first course— _flaki_ for Jaskier, and a less pungent and much milder stew for Geralt—before asking, “So, what’s the news? Have you acquired a second Child of Surprise? Pissed off any royalty? Pissed of _Yennefer?_ You really need to stop doing that, one day she won’t let her semi-affectionate feelings for you get in the way of murdering you on the spot.”

Given that Jaskier has made a sport of pissing Yennefer off, he really doesn’t have a leg to stand on, but Geralt is going to let that go. After all, he has an important job to do: convince Jaskier to help him out and thus brutally end Lambert’s reign as champion of the winter games.

He steels himself and says. “I need a favour.” A beat. “As a friend.”

“I am so proud of you,” Jaskier says, patting his arm patronizingly. “It must have strained you to say that.”

 _Do not throttle the bard. You need him._ “I need you to come to Kaer Morhen with me—”

“Finally! I’ve only been waiting for _ages_ —”

“—as my fiancé.”

“I’m sorry, what.”

*

“So to recap,” Jaskier says, an hour and much disbelieving laughter later, “you want me to come with you to Kaer Morhen as you fake fiancé in order to win the surprise challenge in an annual competition you play with your brothers as a specific ‘fuck you’ to Lambert for having come up with the ‘stupid fucking challenge in the first place’.”

“Yes.”

“And you claim that I should do so purely out of the graciousness of my heart and our many years of best-friendship.”

“It’ll get you out of teaching people you call ‘privileged cum-stains with no two braincells to rub together’.”

“Good point.” He leans back, sips his drink. “It is, without a doubt, the dumbest scheme I have ever heard of, and I’ve been the architect of quite a number of ill-prepared schemes.”

Most of which were in pursuit of illicit sexual relations with possibly the worst choice of people in his near vicinity, but Geralt is not going to bring that up while Jaskier can still say no. “But you’ll do it.”

“Oh, absolutely, but I have conditions. I’m not easy—stop making that face!”

Geralt sighs. “Out with it then.”

Jaskier grins. Geralt regrets everything.

*

Geralt is going to blame _this_ hare-brained mission on Lambert, too. Jaskier may have been the one to think of it, but it all traces back to Lambert’s challenge, and so, Geralt will blame his brother for _everything_ that follows in its wake.

Because he knows that Jaskier _will_ kick up a fuss if Geralt doesn’t put proper effort into it, he makes his way to the Smith’s Quarter, aptly named, if uninspired, for its variety of smithies. He stalls for a bit between the silversmith and goldsmith’s shops, trying to remember which metal is usually associated with engagements in Redania, before giving up and heading for the goldsmith’s. Surely, the more expensive metal will be preferred.

The smells in here aren’t as stringent as it is in the smithies Geralt usually visits—blacksmith, bladesmith, and swordsmith. The farrier, if Roach has need of new shoes. The front of the shop is less like a workplace and more like a sitting room. Geralt immediately wants to walk out and never come back, but the goldsmith has already come out to greet him.

The urge to leave intensifies when he learns the prices. (He’s not even going to pay with his own money, as Jaskier insisted on funding this endeavour, but fuck, rich people spend this much on _frivolities?_ )

The goldsmith, perhaps aptly sensing Geralt’s fit of fiscal pique, suggests that he doesn’t go for solid gold or unique pieces, but instead chooses gilded silver and something readymade. Owing to a long-standing collaboration with the silversmith next door, they have a number of such pieces available, and she’s more than happy to bring them out for his perusal.

Looking over the pieces, Geralt’s first instinct is to ask for a ring. Though he spent only a fraction of his life in Kaedwen—and even that was but the earliest childhood years and thus barely remembered now—that custom has somehow stuck with him. In Redania, however…

“It varies, but most go with a bracelet and arm ring combination,” the goldsmith tells him sagely. “The former is usually light and simple enough for day wear, and the latter is a more personal thing. Unless your beau is the type to show off, you’ll be the only one to see it.”

Which means that it is definitely going to be shown off to all and sundry. Geralt is starting to sweat a little. This feels like a much larger responsibility than pretending to be engaged warrants.

The whole ordeal takes much longer than he’d expected, mainly because he second-guesses his choices for no reason whatsoever. Really, he should just get the simplest thing in the shop; that way, if Jaskier doesn’t want to keep them, he can sell them more easily.

Instead, he ends up with a slender bracelet and a rather complicated arm ring; the bracelet is made of braided strands of silver, only one of which is gilded (a choice that is made based on the memory of how Jaskier looks in cold hues, bringing out the colour of eyes), and the arm ring is a finely wrought creation that’ll embrace Jaskier’s bicep almost lovingly.

“The sizing may be a problem,” the goldsmith says. “Unless you’ve got measurements with you?”

Geralt doesn’t, but he’s spent a long time looking at Jaskier both in and out of his clothes—for legitimate reasons… mostly—so he has a pretty good idea of what will and won’t fit the bard. They manage to work out the fit before he leaves the store.

Now for the truly horrifying part that Jaskier also insisted on.

(Yet another horror to blame on Lambert. That prick.)

*

Why Jaskier can’t be the one to propose if it’s so damn important, Geralt doesn’t know. Possibly, it’s because Jaskier enjoys being as obstinate and inconvenient as possible. Not that that’s a surprise; Geralt knew more or less what he was walking into when he asked Jaskier to help him out. He’d have liked to have been wrong though.

It is not going to be elegant, but then, Jaskier knows that. If he dares to chew Geralt out later, Geralt will… probably take it and say nothing, because at least it’s over and he’ll never have to do it again, thank fuck.

He finds Jaskier in one of the many university courtyards, the preferred relaxation spot of many students, faculty, and visiting alumni. Jaskier spots him at once, of course, and starts grinning delightedly before Geralt even reaches him, the little shit.

Without a single ounce of care for any romance, he marches up to Jaskier, gets down on one knee, and makes aggressive eye contact as he pulls the bracelet out of his pocket and asks Jaskier to marry him. The many, _many_ stares on him are incredibly uncomfortable.

Jaskier, of course, takes it up a notch by shrieking theatrically and throwing himself at Geralt, making all sorts of happy noises. It’s quite a production; Geralt would be impressed if he wasn’t starring in it. There is applause. He wants to _die_.

Jaskier then says, “But _darling_ , I was going to ask _you,_ ” and pulls a bracelet of his own out of seemingly thin air, making the crowd go absolutely wild with rapture. Jaskier hams it up, covering his gleeful smile with his palm and weeping faux-tears of joy.

“I hate you,” Geralt tells him seriously in an undertone.

“You _love_ me,” Jaskier corrects and presses a kiss to Geralt’s cheek. His lips are very soft and firm. (He doesn’t wonder whether Jaskier will do that again, or whether Geralt himself will have to kiss Jaskier, or how often, or where, or any of those things.) “Now for the trial run—”

“ _No_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's only hours since i uploaded chapter 1, but this was ready and i'm soft for validation and y'all are so nice, so here ya go!
> 
> warnings:  
> \- clumsy sexual content  
> \- strange vows concerning certain body parts  
> \- a pop culture reference vaguely medievalized to fit in

The trial run takes place that very evening. Perhaps Jaskier planned it so (Jaskier definitely planned it so). Geralt sees no reason for having it, but arguing with Jaskier when he’s put his mind to something is a bit like trying to convince a drowner not to drown people.

Reason just doesn’t get through to him. Not ‘the news have already spread. Like the plague. Everybody knows’, or ‘you’ve already talked the dean into reassigning your courses, there’s no reason to bring more attention to it’.

Jaskier just says, “If we can’t fool my colleagues, then we can’t fool your brothers, and we might as well find out now. We’re _going_ , Geralt.” And so, they go.

Due to the many conferences being held at Oxenfurt this fall, the dining halls and guesthouses are filled every night. As a favourite pastime of both resident and visiting academics is to drink and either bemoan or brag about their research, this also means a great deal of socializing and casual get-togethers.

It is to one such gathering that Jaskier drags Geralt. He has been forced into a bath and mostly clean clothes. Well, maybe ‘forced’ is the wrong word for the former; Geralt enjoys bathing, a lot, and you would too if you had his nose. But he doesn’t enjoy it nearly as much as Jaskier does—of course, Jaskier enjoys it for reasons other than simply bathing and it’s an almost religious affair for him. He just can’t help himself, not with his nature.)

While Geralt tries to stick to the very edges of the crowd and only make eye-contact with the harried servants carrying drinks around, Jaskier bursts onto the scene with such aplomb that people cannot help but look at him. He is decked out in his best clothes, jewel-toned and bright, his sleeves rolled up to show off his engagement bracelet. If Geralt bumps against his arm, he can feel the arm ring through his clothes. He’s very aware of that arm ring, even more so than the bracelet.

Geralt is wearing his jewellery, too. In solidarity, not for any other reason.

Fluttering between groups of people, Jaskier is entirely in his element. Watching him now, it’s hard to believe he was once a slightly hapless fool of a bard, the way he’d been when Geralt first met him. Now, he knows how to command an audience and have them hang on his every word, and only gets chased out of a bar for hitting on the wrong person. In between fawning over Geralt, he works the room with poise and precision.

It helps that he is just as handsome now as he was then; even Geralt can admit that. His hair is no longer quite as floppy, his face not quite as boyish, though he still retains his round cheeks and impish smile. He’s grown into himself but still has that enviable vigour of youth that many of his peers note with both desire and disbelief. If asked, he’ll claim it’s all down to a highly advanced daily skin care routine, and while he definitely has that routine, he and Geralt both know better. Easier to let the humans believe in the power of seaweed and sugar scrubs than to get into the specifics of Jaskier’s less-than-human bloodline.

Jaskier doesn’t even like to talk about it with Geralt. Which Geralt definitely does not have feelings about, and if he did, those feelings would not at all be hurt. It’s Jaskier’s business, not anyone else’s. _If_ he chose to talk about it, Geralt would do his best to let him know that it doesn’t matter what Jaskier is; that it wouldn’t matter even if he was, say, a dragon, or a vampire, or any of the more beastly creatures. Being a half-nokk is barely more than being a half-elf, and in any case, he’s just _Jaskier._ Nothing else matters.

But again: Jaskier doesn’t talk about it, and he’s quite good at not letting on around humans. If it weren’t for Geralt’s training and extraordinary senses, he wouldn’t have found out either. Jaskier’s off-hand jokes about ‘I’ll just use a bit of the old magic, eh’ are easy to shrug off.

As Geralt has mostly tuned out of the conversation, he doesn’t hear all that much of what Jaskier is saying. Now and then he catches snippets about ‘a winter wedding’ and ‘Witcher tradition’ and a number of other lies that Jaskier spins for his rapt audience. But he doesn’t become truly aware until suddenly Jaskier loses his gleeful cheer to pained courtesy: “Valdo Marx, what a pleasure to see you here. In Oxenfurt. I’d heard you’d retired back in Cidaris. And died.”

Geralt is instantly on guard. Then, when he is introduced to Marx, he’s confused.

According to Jaskier, the rivalry between the two of them is the stuff of legends. Forged by years and years of mutual distaste and artistic battles fought with sweat and tears and epic ballads. Geralt has even wondered if they were once lovers; why else would two people hate each other so much if they haven’t ever actively tried to murder one another (Jaskier’s wish to the djinn in Rinde doesn’t count)?

Needless to say, though Geralt has never before met Marx, he’s had plenty of notions about what he might be like: Jaskier’s age, more of less (so between forty to fifty, much as Jaskier tries to pretend he’s still in his twenties), attractive enough to have caught Jaskier’s interest, and sharp-tongued enough to earn his ire.

That is… not the case.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says in an undertone as Jaskier and Marx glare balefully at one another, “he’s _old._ ”

“Right you are, dear heart,” Jaskier agrees, looking down at Marx. Which is not a hard thing to do, given that the man is shrivelled and hunch-backed enough to barely reach Jaskier’s chest. “Valdo, my beloved wants to know how a fossil like you is still walking around.”

“Still lacking in wit, I see,” Marx replies. For his advanced age, his voice remains sonorous and steady. “Entirely unsurprising.”

Geralt liberates the glass in Jaskier’s hand before he can crush it into pieces and stab Marx with the shards.

*

“Apart from that little skirmish,” Jaskier says later that night as they’re walking back to his rooms, “it all went rather well. No one questioned our relationship, not even that prick, _Valdo Marx_ —”

“The man is _eighty_.”

“Eighty? Oh, please, I doubt that’s his real age. I bet he’s been prolonging his life for centuries, living on… on _virgin’s blood_ and _witches’ potions_ , or by sucking the joy out of innocent young bards and _thriving_ , but oh, I’m going to outlive him and then, _then_ I shall salt and burn his memory until there’s nothing left!”

“Hmm.”

“Your disbelief is unappreciated. If only you knew of the trials he’s put me through—and not just the exams. _Don’t_ get me started on his views on authorial intent.” Jaskier waves his hands. “Trust me, that’s a big thing in academia. And Valdo Marx is _wrong._ About _everything._ ”

He relishes on the subject as they get ready for bed. Their routine is the same now as it is on the road, shared bed and everything. Low coin and cold weather has forced them into close proximity rather often, and it’s surprisingly comfortable to sink down next to Jaskier, even if he’s still ranting about Valdo Marx and ‘his entirely inaccurate and bogus review of Brittany of Speares’ catalogue of ballads.’

Geralt lets it lull him to sleep, just at the cusp of falling, when suddenly, Jaskier says, “We should sleep together, too.”

Geralt blinks. Briefly contemplates whether he’s awake or not. “What.”

“No, really, it’s a brilliant idea!” Jaskier turns over, accidentally slapping Geralt in his eagerness to explain. “Tonight worked _only_ because we were amongst humans who didn’t know you—and because my acting skills are _on point_ , of course—but let’s say I told you, a Witcher, that I was engaged and happily in love with my spouse-to-be, what would you say?”

Despite sensing it’s not the right answer, Geralt tries it anyway: “That’s nice.”

“Work with me, Geralt! I mean, wouldn’t you be the least bit suspicious?”

“Why?”

Jaskier sighs like Geralt is the one complicating things. (When all the blame should clearly still be on Lambert.) “Geralt, what do I smell like?”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Humour me.”

Fine. “Bath oil. Perfume. Ale. Mint. Sweat.”

“Like, bad sweat or—never mind, not the point. In short: I smell like things that I have either applied to my skin, come into contact with, or my own natural musk?”

“And?”

“Are you being particularly obtuse right now, or are you really not noticing that I don’t smell like I’ve been in close contact—specifically _sexual_ contact—with my so-called fiancé? You think your brothers will buy a story about me becoming suddenly chaste?”

Geralt hadn’t thought that far. Had, in fact, actively worked not to think that far. “Fuck.”

“That’s the idea, yes.” He pats Geralt’s shoulder. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

*

They do talk about it the next day. Or rather, Jaskier talks about it, and Geralt makes objections. Not just to be obstinate either, but to shore up their reasoning for when Yennefer finds out, because she will find out and she _will_ make fun of them. Best have their arguments ready.

It’s not even that Geralt is particularly invested in arguing against Jaskier’s proposal. He has worries, sure, but those are purely based on how their friendship might be affected by it. He can even admit that he’s looked at Jaskier before and gotten a little preoccupied with imagining what it might be like to be with him. He has eyes. This would be a perfect way to get that out of his system without anyone getting the wrong idea.

(The weird knot of confusing emotions that relates to Jaskier isn’t even a concern; Geralt has a strict regime of being emotionally introspective only four times a year, and his quota has already been met.)

Also, it’s amusing to wind Jaskier up. “I doubt we’ll be questioned on how we like to fuck.”

“But we _could_ be. Didn’t you say Lambert was a prick? You want to take the chance that he won’t be inappropriate?”

“Hmm.”

“That’s what I thought. And don’t say we could solve that by talking about it. Unless, of course, you would like to give me a monologue on how you like to be pleasured, then by all means, go ahead.”

“ _Hmm._ ”

“Exactly. While _I_ could give you a most splendid account of my desires, that wouldn’t be fair now, would it? Thus: we simply must have sex. For _authenticity_.” A beat. “I guess you’re also okay-looking.”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

*

As someone who has experience with brothels and thus outlining which specific services he requires, Geralt doesn’t see their first coupling being much different from that. Sweaty, a little awkward as they figure out how to touch each other, maybe a little tentative given their friendship and how it might be affected by throwing sex into the mix. Their friendship might even make it a little easier, a little more fun.

And it _is_ fun. But less in the ‘having a good time’ way and more in the ‘I can’t believe I’ve ended up in this situation’ way, ‘and all I can do is laugh’. It’s Jaskier’s fault.

The kissing is fine, great even, as is feeling each other up. Jaskier wears his engagement jewellery and nothing else, and for some reason, that’s really working for Geralt.

But then comes the next part.

“We should do penetration,” Jaskier insists.

They both look down at Geralt’s cock. With Jaskier’s own bobbing right next to it, it’s hard not to notice the… difference. He’s not monstrous or anything, but more than one prostitute has had her reservations about it.

“You could—” he starts.

“Ride you, absolutely, splendid idea!” Which is not what Geralt was going to suggest at all, but alright. He wouldn’t have minded being taken, but if Jaskier insists, Geralt will hand him the oil. “Let’s get stretchiiiiiing.”

(Geralt doesn’t know why he wants to have sex with Jaskier when he says things like that.)

That feeling only intensifies when Jaskier insists that he’s ready _now_ and doesn’t listen to Geralt when he suggests that they might need a bit more time to prepare him. Which is why they get a few minutes of Jaskier sitting very stiffly on Geralt’s cock, eyes a little wider than they should be, not moving at all.

“I told you,” Geralt says. He’s not smug, except he kind of is.

Jaskier thumps his chest. “Shut up and let me adjust. Saints, what do you even use this thing for on a daily basis, battering down doors?”

“When the need arises.”

Jaskier wheezes. “Stop making me laugh, damn you, it _jostles_ things.”

Once Jaskier has gotten used to him, however, everything goes rather more smoothly. He’s an enthusiastic bedmate, noisy and warm and pretty with his lips parted like that and his colour high, and he’s unafraid to just go for what he wants. While there’s still a lot of clunky starts and stops, both Geralt and Jaskier end up sprawled out and satisfied.

“That was rather good,” Jaskier says, because of course he has to talk about it after. Geralt just wants to glory in it a bit. “We’ll practice and get better. I will conquer that dick, so help me gods.”

Geralt laughs. He can’t help it.

(Maybe, this one thing he won’t blame Lambert for. It’s too good to be blamed on Lambert.)

*

They spend the rest of the day packing up and getting ready. They’re not exactly in a hurry; Oxenfurt may lie across the continent from Kaer Morhen, but they can follow the main road straight north-west to Ard Carragh before heading into the wild. It’s more that the weather is unpredictable this time of year, and Geralt would rather not risk Jaskier on the Trail. Half-nokk or not, the Trail is specifically meant to dissuade non-Witchers from attempting the climb.

The day proceeds without a hitch. Geralt should’ve known it only does so in preparation for the tomfoolery he finds upon his return to Jaskier’s rooms, but for some godsforsaken reason, he doesn’t.

A dozen trunks and chests stand at the ready just inside Jaskier’s door, some not fully packed yet and thus overflowing with clothes. He has a whole separate chest for his beauty products, because for some reason, he absolutely cannot bring his travel-sized bottles and simply must have the whole collection at hand. That’s not even the worst of it.

“What’s that?” Geralt asks, poking at a weird instrument. It has a handle and strings.

“It’s a hurdy-gurdy.”

“… why.”

“In case the lute isn’t impressive enough.”

“Being impressive isn’t a concern.” It is absolutely the wrong thing to say; Geralt can’t for the life of him figure out why, but Jaskier sure is fussy about it. Geralt tries to argue that even _if_ being impressive was a concern, Jaskier wouldn’t need anything but his lute as Witchers aren’t the most discerning when it comes to music. Jaskier promptly asks if Geralt has ever described his singing as ‘fillingless pie’ to his brothers. Geralt wisely changes the subject to practical matters: they cannot carry all this with them (they can’t even carry more than a quarter of the clothes, and that’s stretching it, but he’s saving that argument for when Jaskier isn’t clutching his hurdy-gurdy like a long-lost child.)

“Your brothers will love it,” Jaskier maintains. “No one is immune to the hurdy-gurdy.”

“You are not bringing the hurdy-gurdy.”

*

They ride out of Oxenfurt in the morning, Geralt on Roach, Jaskier astride a mule and towing another, which is carrying the fucking hurdy-gurdy and (at least) a thousand other things that he will not be needing. They’re pretending to be engaged, not pretending they’re going to move into Kaer Morhen forever. But Geralt is good at picking his battles and he doesn’t fight this one (he’d already lost it three times last night.)

They spend the journey working out their story. Somehow, Geralt had naively assumed that it would be a straight-forward lie with as few things to get tripped up on as possible. Jaskier, however, is rewriting the whole thing as if it were an epic in the making.

“So, where do we tell them we met?”

“Posada.”

“Really?”

“They know already.”

“That’s no fun. You’re taking the fun out of this.”

“Hmm.”

In the end, it’s easier to let Jaskier work the whole thing out on his own; Geralt interjects only when he veers too far from something Geralt has already told his brothers, or when his fanciful narrative gets, well… too fanciful.

_It was a slow thing. Well, not the chemistry, obviously we’ve always had that, but one day we fell into bed, and we kept falling into bed, and then we fell in love—yes, that could totally happen in nine months, stop sighing like that! We didn’t really do traditional courting as much as we fell straight into a sort-of-married state while travelling, you know, sharing food, sharing beds, sharing baths. You proposed, of course, but I’d been planning to do so for a while, and I’ll be swearing up and down that I’ll get you back for it at some point. I should probably write to my parents—no, really, this is important, the gossip will definitely reach them sooner rather than later!_

Jaskier plans for a whole slew of questions they might be asked, most of which they can already answer. Like, ‘who gets up first in the morning?’ (Geralt, because Jaskier is lazy and whiny—though Jaskier claims that it’s just because Geralt needs less sleep); ‘which side of the bed do you prefer?’ (Geralt just needs to be between Jaskier and the door, side doesn’t matter); ‘where did that scar come from?’ (Geralt’s from monsters, Jaskier’s from bad life choices that are hilarious in hindsight); ‘what’re your siblings’ names?’ (Eskel, Lambert—and Coën, but he’s more like a cousin; Agnieszka, Kaisa, Lizvetta); ‘when were you born?’ (Geralt doesn’t know, might be the spring, Jaskier is midwinter baby. He makes no mention of whether his parents know of his non-human heritage, but he does mention his father not being related by blood.)

They stop in villages along the road, take odd jobs and entertain the public. By the grace of every god there ever was and ever will be, they don’t get robbed despite the glaring target Jaskier’s many, _many_ trunks put on them. Sorting that each night is a trial and a half.

“You know, I’m kind of offended that it takes cheating at a competition for you to invite me home with you,” Jaskier says one night.

“Didn’t know you wanted to come.”

“Well, you never asked.”

“You’ve never had a problem voicing your wants unprompted before.”

“I was trying to be polite, maybe you’ve heard of it, it’s this thing where—”

“Jaskier, go to sleep.” A beat. “I’d have brought you if I knew.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet.”

“ _Jaskier._ ”

*

In between, they learn each other’s bodies. Jaskier is very committed to selling this; he’s always been handsy, but his handsy-ness takes on entirely new proportions now that they’re sleeping together, and to be quite honest, it makes for some intensely awkward situations. Geralt isn’t going to ask him to stop, however.

So what if they end up fucking in a barn every now and then? Or in the woods after a job, because Geralt’s potion-black eyes are _not_ a problem for Jaskier. Once, it even happens by the side of the road; Jaskier coaxes Geralt to his knees and unlaces his pants with a smirk that wants to be salacious but is really just over-the-top ridiculous. Geralt sucks him anyway.

It all means that Geralt is a bit on edge. He never knows when Jaskier’s touch might turn sexual, and as Jaskier smells mostly of sex and smug satisfaction these days, his body starts having instant reactions to even the most innocent of touches, connecting touch and smell just like that. A hand on his wrist to get his attention, the way Jaskier runs his fingers under the bracelet Geralt wears on his left hand, slightly possessive and altogether happy to be sharing in this adventure. All of it sets him off.

In turn, Geralt reaches back. It’s not fair that he’s the only one in a constant state of confused arousal, so he winds Jaskier up just the same. Geralt’s hand on Jaskier’s neck when they speak, or the way he tilts Jaskier’s head up with his knuckles under his chin; both make Jaskier’s pupils dilate.

Baths in particular become drawn-out affairs, more than they already were.

Being a nokk, Jaskier’s relationship with water is simple: if it’s there, he wants to be in it. Salt water is a bit of a mixed bag; if it’s the coast, it’s fine, but he has a peculiar aversion to the open sea. Geralt learned that when they first sailed to Skellige. He’s never seen Jaskier so miserable. Fresh water, though? Lakes, rivers, ponds, they might as well be the fountain of youth for how joyously Jaskier flings himself into them. Even puddles get him excited, splashing around like a naughty child.

Not even the cold weather can dissuade him, much as Geralt refuses to join him at first. “There’ll be a bath at the inn,” he’ll say, and Jaskier will complain and stomp his feet, and Geralt will allow it, because he gets it. Having been stuck in Oxenfurt for the past months must have really made him miss unsullied waters.

(Some days, they still end up all over each other in the shallows. Even when it’s cold and rainy and certain appendages aren’t too eager to join the party. They make do. They keep each other warm.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i still procrastinating my thesis? yes, yes i am. but i swear i'm gonna work on that now
> 
> Y'ALL ARE TOO KIND TO ME I LOVE U
> 
> content warnings:  
> \- sex  
> \- like, the whole first third of this is just sex  
> \- more pop culture references  
> \- Witchers being silly  
> \- Lambert upping the stakes

They lose three days at the border of Kaedwen. The first day is for perfectly legit reasons; there’s a job, it goes a bit awry, Geralt ends up covered in guts. The next day, it’s pouring seemingly endless rain from morning until afternoon, and by afternoon, Geralt and Jaskier have become so thoroughly distracted by each other that they don’t even notice the change.

See, Jaskier has a tendency towards… Geralt wouldn’t call it over-involvement, except that’s what it is. But calling it that makes it sound like he’s complaining, and in this one case, he’s not. After all, he reaps the rewards of Jaskier’s enthusiasm.

It starts with a kiss. And another, and another, and because they’ve gotten good at that, it ends with their clothes all over the floor, and Jaskier face down and moaning while Geralt kisses his way down his spine, spreads his cheeks, and licks him open. The noises Jaskier makes take on a distinctly higher pitch; in between breaths, the sounds of Geralt’s mouth and tongue working at him break the silence, followed by his own grunts.

He’s got a firm grip on Jaskier, one hand holding him open, the other squeezing his thigh. They’re shaking, just trembling with pleasure, and Geralt has the sudden and exhilarating fantasy of Jaskier’s thighs encased in golden jewellery akin to their arm rings. They’re both wearing theirs; Geralt only takes his off for hunts, puts it back on the second he returns and gets clean. He presses closer, holds Jaskier tighter.

“Oh, god of FUCK,” Jaskier gasps and comes.

Geralt slides into him after and chases his own pleasure, guided by the words and praises pouring from Jaskier’s lips. He’d liked it the first night they were together, the way Jaskier arched and pushed and put him where he wanted and needed him. Now, as Jaskier tilts his hips up and fucks back into Geralt’s thrusts despite being so come-drunk he can barely see straight, Geralt can’t help but plant kisses and bites all over Jaskier’s skin, one hand entwined with Jaskier’s, the other holding him in place just below his arm ring.

When he’s coaxed another orgasm from Jaskier and come himself, he lies closely behind him, their legs tangled together, hands trailing gently over each other’s skin as they come down. He’s waiting for Jaskier to ruin the afterglow with a review (something he has reluctantly started to find funny), but Jaskier stays silent and dazed for quite a while. Smug pride fills Geralt; he’s done the unimaginable. Some would say impossible. He’s managed to shut Jaskier up.

“I can _feel_ your self-satisfied smugness,” Jaskier tries to say. What comes out is, “c’n fill ya self-satissmugs.”

“ _Hmm_ ,” Geralt replies with a close-mouthed smile.

*

The third day they lose because Jaskier is a competitive little shit. He barely lets Geralt finish his breakfast before he throws some money at the innkeeper, drags Geralt upstairs, and tells him, “It’s payback time, fucker, now: to bed!”

Geralt really doesn’t know why he indulges him.

“I realize this is one of your least favourite activities,” Jaskier says as they strip down, “but in order for me to render you as well-fucked as you did to me yesterday, I’m going to need directions. Tell me _exactly_ what I should do.”

In stops and starts, Geralt manages to describe what he wants. Most of it are things Jaskier has already found out from the careful explorations he’s been doing over the past few weeks. He knows that Geralt likes his scars touched, knows which ones need a gentle hand, which ones a firm; he knows that Geralt likes his chest played with, that he likes it when their bodies press together, and the feel of Jaskier’s body hair against him.

He knows that for all their adrenalin-fuelled sex, Geralt really, _really_ likes it slow. It’s something he rarely has the time or patience for, be it with a lover or a whore. Thus, when Jaskier takes him apart bit by bit, all he can do is lie there and take it.

“Just focus on me,” Jaskier whispers, “don’t do anything, just feel me.”

With careful fingers, he opens Geralt up. With gentle hands, he gets him on his hands and knees. He pushes into Geralt as if Geralt is an untried youth, weak and nervous with his first lover. To tell the truth, he _feels_ weak and nervous. It feels like sharing a secret, a piece of himself he doesn’t look at for fear it’ll change him irrevocably, and now Jaskier is within reach of it.

Soon, he’s collapsed onto the bed, thighs spread to accommodate Jaskier between them, hands clutching at the pillow and sheets to keep him grounded. Like this, Jaskier can’t move his hips too energetically, can mostly just rut into Geralt and grind him down against the bed. He’s wrapped one hand around Geralt’s cock—a position that is surely uncomfortable by now.

What makes Geralt fly apart are two specific touches; one is the touch of Jaskier’s lips to his shoulder, the combination of a kiss and a punched-out breath against his skin; the other is Jaskier’s hand sliding into his hair. It’s not pulling, not scratching either. He just _holds_ him _._

Geralt makes a sound that he’d deny if he had the presence of mind to and comes all over the bed.

He’s had good sex before. Great sex, too. None of it has ever done to him what Jaskier just has. Geralt isn’t even sure what the hell is happening. At first, it doesn’t feel particularly good; every nerve ending is alight, and his senses are running wild. Every sound, every touch, every scent, batters at him.

“Geralt?” Jaskier says, voice too close (and yet, despite this, Geralt wants him closer.) “Are you okay?”

Geralt blinks wildly. He’s not sure about that, but words don’t… work right now.

Thankfully, Jaskier gets it; he pulls out, still hard (Geralt wants to shy away from it and buck into it at the same time), and lies down next to Geralt. His hands hover over Geralt’s skin, but as this makes Geralt shudder, he pulls away.

He can smell Jaskier’s rising panic but can’t really focus on it. His body is slowly starting to settle, not physically, as he still shakes, but mentally. What he’s feeling is _pleasure._ And overload of it.

It makes him giggle. _Unwillingly_. But he can’t keep it in.

Jaskier stills, eyes wide. He leans over Geralt, disbelieving as Geralt keeps trying to smother his sounds. It must be infectious, because Jaskier starts chuckling, too, looking at Geralt like he’s not quite sure what to do with him, but he’s more than pleased to try him on for size.

After assuring Jaskier that he’s fine (with huffs of air, because words aren’t possible just then), he manages to convince Jaskier that he should keep going. This proves somewhat impossible, as almost every touch nearly makes him throw Jaskier off the bed, but eventually, they find a way: Jaskier jerking himself to completion, kissing Geralt’s lips firmly as he comes down. Light touches aren’t good, but the steady pressure is divine.

In between kisses, laughter keeps coming. Geralt does his best to help Jaskier out, but the only thing he’s capable of is clutching at Jaskier’s thigh, because even touching him makes Geralt dizzy.

The splatter of Jaskier’s release against Geralt’s side feels like a brand.

*

If Geralt had idly fantasized about riding into Kaer Morhen triumphantly with Lambert falling at his feet, screeching _nooooooo_ at the skies as his reign of terror came to an abrupt and well-deserved end, he’s sorely disappointed to find that neither of his brothers have yet arrived. (Jaskier says that that fantasy was overdramatic anyhow, but Jaskier does not have a leg—nay, a _single toe_ —to stand on.)

Vesemir is the one to greet them. Ciri has arrived, too, but Vesemir says that she’s absorbed in a book, and the last time he disturbed her, she got mad at him. Vesemir can face down uncountable monsters and not flinch, but one upset teenage girl unnerves him to his core.

“You brought the bard, I see. About time,” he says. His eyes linger on the pack mule. “And the bard’s every possession.”

Jaskier, having all the subtlety of an amorous peacock, manages to greet Vesemir and flash his engagement bracelet at the same time. Vesemir spots the bracelet (not hard, it’s practically being held up under his nose), stares, looks at Geralt, looks back at Jaskier, looks at Geralt.

Before he can say anything, Jaskier derails the conversation by sniffing the air and blurting, “You have _hot springs?_ Geralt, I’ll see you later, bye!”

“Jaskier, we have to unpac— _Jaskier_.” He’s gone. “Fuck.”

Vesemir watches him go. “Is he a—”

“Nokk. Half.”

“Hmm.” A beat. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing with him?”

Given that they’ve hashed it all out in excruciating detail, yes. But Geralt can’t tell Vesemir that, or they might disqualify for the winter games. Instead, he nods. Vesemir looks doubtful but doesn’t voice his concerns.

*

In fact, all the reactions they get make Geralt suspicious.

Even Ciri acts oddly when Geralt tells her about him and Jaskier. She flitters between being ecstatic for them and wary, the latter of which he doesn’t understand. Unlike the rest of the Witchers, she’s familiar with Jaskier, having travelled with both him and Geralt before. She’s always liked him (apart from that first incident where she ‘accidentally’ set him on fire, but Jaskier forgave her for that), so why the worry in her eyes?

(It could be because Jaskier chooses to announce himself after his bath by storming into the hall and declaring, “‘ _Tis I, Jaskier! Returning to thee triumphantly_!” before smothering Ciri in a hug, but that’s not the weirdest thing Jaskier has done to make Ciri laugh, so Geralt discards that notion at once.)

Whatever troubles her, she doesn’t voice it. She only pulls Geralt aside and asks, “He knows, right? About the competition? He’s not going to be hurt when he finds out how it all coincides?”

Given that the games are the reason he’s here: no. “He knows.”

“Oh. That’s good.” Then she grins. “You’re still not going to win with that, you know.”

Geralt makes a face. Outrageous little cub; of course it’s going to help him win. No one could’ve seen this coming. Ciri cackles.

The next to arrive, Coën, at least has the grace to be surprised, even if his reaction is a little lacking. “Oh, uh, congratulations?” he says, looking between Jaskier and Geralt like he’s not quite sure what’s happening. Despite just being told _exactly what’s happening._ Geralt overhears him muttering, “Wolves are so godsdamned weird.” Given that Coën willingly winters with them _and_ competes in the games, Geralt doesn’t put much stock in that comment.

And finally, Eskel and Lambert arrive.

Eskel rides up first. He and Lambert have made the climb together, but Eskel rode ahead to check in first (and to give them fair warning.) When he spots Jaskier in their midst, he subtly turns his face to hide his scars and then says, “Geralt, I hope you’ve come up with something really good, or Lambert is going to win.”

Geralt points at Jaskier, who waves.

Eskel frowns. “Bringing your bard isn’t exactly surprising. In fact, we’d have been more surprised if you _didn’t_ bring him. Again.”

“He’s not my bard—”

“Not _just_ his bard,” Jaskier chimes in.

“He’s my fiancé.”

Eskel blinks. Hides his face in his hands. The weird pouch he has strapped to his front wriggles, making everyone eye it curiously. 

Before they can get into that, Lambert rides into the courtyard, and he’s not alone. Another Witcher rides with him; a tall, almost elegant man with no facial scars whatsoever. He’s got some deep ones across his throat though. His hair is dark brown and wavy and like Coën, he sports a full beard, though it’s much more artful, especially his moustache.

Lambert’s grinning even before he dismounts. “I present,” he announces grandly, “Aiden of the School of the Cats.” A beat, while the Wolf Witchers fight their instinctive urge to sneer at Cat Witchers. “My boyfriend.”

Complete silence reigns for a while. Then, Geralt says, “This is Jaskier. My fiancé.”

Lambert loses his smile at once. “WHAT. NO.”

*

“ _He stole my idea_!”

“How can I have stolen your idea when I haven’t seen you since last winter?”

“Vesemir, _Geralt stole my idea_!”

“Both of you shut up, we’ll discuss this when we vote tomorrow.”

*

That night, Geralt and Lambert sit across from one another, glaring. Jaskier, at Geralt’s side, makes pleasant conversation with everyone and carefully avoids looking between the feuding brothers. If he happens to glance at them, a wheezing laugh starts up in his chest, and he has to leave the table to compose himself.

Eskel’s pouch wriggles some more. Other than to assure them all that no, he hasn’t kidnapped a baby _or_ stumbled on a Child of Surprise, he refuses to say what, exactly, is in there. It smells vaguely dog-like and yet not really. Vesemir keeps glancing at it and rolling his eyes, while Ciri visibly restrains herself from demanding access to it.

If Geralt isn’t contemplating shoving Lambert of a cliff, he’s staring at Aiden, who looks less than comfortable with all the attention he’s getting. (Which makes Lambert raise his eyebrows in a way that communicates that if Geralt doesn’t stop, Lambert is going to gouge out his eyes.)

There’s something familiar about Aiden though, and it annoys Geralt that he can’t remember it. Thus, the staring. It’s not his face, but maybe his name… When it finally comes to him, he halts all conversation to ask, “Aren’t you the Witcher I helped Lambert track down a few years back? The one who _died?_ ”

For someone so uneasy in a pack of Wolves (and a Griffin, but Coën is an honorary Wolf at this point), Aiden manages a surprisingly flippant tone: “Oh, yeah. That. Greatly exaggerated. A misunderstanding, you see.”

Which of course makes Lambert stare at him adoringly, and in turn, everybody else at the table is uncomfortable. Adoring Lambert is a scary thing to behold.

*

“Geralt, if you keep up the growling, I’m going to kick you out of bed—and wow, never thought I’d say that, look what you made me do,” Jaskier says that night, a few hours after they’ve gone to bed.

“Hmm,” Geralt grumbles into his pillow. Fucking Lambert. Ruining everything.

Sighing as if the whole world rests on his shoulders, Jaskier clambers on top of him (elbowing him the kidney on the way, fucking ow). He wiggles into position, making a happy noise when he’s draped himself properly across Geralt’s back.

“I’m not your pillow.”

“Put a little fervour into it, and you could be,” Jaskier tells him with faux sincerity. “Look. I know this seems like a setback, but trust me, you’ll still win the games. Yes, Lambert did steal some of your thunder, and his boyfriend is his _real_ boyfriend, and—”

“The point, Jaskier.”

“—point is, no one except you and me _knows_ that. They all think I’m your fiancé, just as planned. Fiancé trumps boyfriend any day! I wouldn’t let you down!”

“Hmm.”

“Stop that grumpy-grouchy growling and go to sleep.”

“Hmm.”

“Fine! If you get to be noisy, so do I.”

And noisy he is. He alternates between humming and singing the lyrics to _Lady Joanna._ Geralt has questions about that song, the main one being why it’s called Lady Joanna and not Lady _Joanne_ , as that’s the name being sung. Jaskier says it’s a translation peculiarity and that ‘Joanna’ wouldn’t fit the meter. Which still doesn’t answer why it’s called Lady Joanna, but he gets nothing more sensible out of Jaskier. “ _Joanne, Joanne. Joanne, Joanne! I beg of thee, pray take not my lord._ ”

If he isn’t singing, he’s trying to get Geralt to repeat a strange, tongue-twisting tale after him, something about two kings and their children who are to be wed. Their names mirror each other, and Jaskier says them faster and faster until they’re just meaningless syllables strung together.

At least it distracts Geralt from thinking about Lambert’s (underhanded, cheating) move. He falls asleep soon after, with Jaskier still mumbling more-or-less incoherently into the space between his shoulder blades. He’s been working on a new song, and now he traces the melody into Geralt’s skin with every breath as he, too, falls asleep.

The last thing Geralt hears is: “ _Oh, darling, I was born, to press my head—_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> links to the songs included here (well, just one link, 'cus due to copyright restrictions, the second song can no longer be accessed from my country on youtube)
> 
> [bardcore version of Dolly Parton's Jolene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugqQlB5fpuc) (i know i changed it to Lady Joanne, but bear with me)
> 
> Fair by The Amazing Devil, which absolutely wrecks my heart each and every time


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i give to you... Lambert being a dastardly little bastard man and Geralt and Jaskier being 110% useless

The next morning (if it can even be called that), Geralt gets mercilessly woken up by Jaskier jack-knifing upright and whisper-screeching, “ _I forgot to write my parents oh gods oh fuck,_ ” right in Geralt’s ear. It is somehow not the worst way Jaskier has ever woken him up, but it’s definitely a runner-up.

“Come back to bed,” Geralt mumbles and tries to pull Jaskier back, but Jaskier dodges him expertly. He’s had much training dodging the grasping hands of lovers. (How, Geralt can’t fathom. Jaskier is _not_ an accomplished flirt, despite whatever lie he tries to sell you. If given sufficient time—preferable weeks—he can come up with maybe _one_ compliment that isn’t entirely off-putting. Sadly, he only affords that sort of patience to his songs; compliments get blurted out in the moment. How so many people fall for his bullshit is a mystery Geralt will never solve.)

Jaskier fumbles around for his clothes. “The rumour of our relationship will have reached them by now. And then they’ll be _disappointed_ that they didn’t hear it from me. It’s a real concern, Geralt!”

“Hmm.”

“You say that, but they’re going to be disappointed in you, too.”

And so, Geralt gets bullied out of their warm bed on the first morning that they’ve had time to sleep in. In between yawns (which Jaskier finds the time to inform him are “sweetly cat-like—you know, you start small and soft and then suddenly _sharp and pointy teethsies—_ what? I meant it as a compliment!”), he manages to pull himself together.

They get derailed by Jaskier deciding they both need to shave, which in turn evolves into a long lecture on Jaskier’s overly-involved skincare routine. He claims that Geralt _must_ pay attention, because what if Lambert questions him on it? “As my fiancé, shouldn’t you know these things?” Given that it will never even occur to Lambert that there’s such a thing as skincare: no. Jaskier does not accept that reality.

Finally, they sneak through the keep.

As a result of Yennefer and Triss having spent a lot of time here, there are a fair amount of magical odds and ends left behind, some of them even useful. One of those things is an enchanted mirror, an experiment between a scrying mirror and a xenovox; it’s a little difficult to work, given that it’s incredibly old and thus seems to have taken on a soul of its own, but Jaskier manages to sweet-talk (read: whine) it into submission.

You have to be very specific with the mirror, or else it won’t work; Jaskier ends up telling it, “the Continent, Northern Kingdoms, Redania, Lettenhove, the vanity in the master bedchamber—but please, by all the gods, _do not_ show me my parents having sex or being otherwise naked, or I might die.”

The mirror ripples. It seems almost petulant.

*

They, thankfully, do not catch Jaskier’s parents doing naked acrobatics, but rather getting ready for the day. Jaskier’s mother is sitting right in front her vanity, combing her hair; she gets quite a shock when the surface ripples and her image disappears to show her son and Geralt staring out at her.

Geralt has never met anyone’s parents. Or, well, he has, but not in any way that matters. He wouldn’t exactly call the feeling that takes hold of him ‘nervousness’, but he’s not quite sure what else to label it either. Trepidation, maybe. Unease. Who knows how Viscountess de Lettenhove might react to learning exactly what kind of shenanigans her (non-human) son gets up to with the monster hunter?

He has all of two seconds to take stock of her. She’s a lovely woman, gone plump with age and leisurely life, handsomely dressed and blue-eyed. Old, but not ancient; she must have had Jaskier at a young age. Then, she opens her mouth and bellows, and the family resemblance becomes immediately obvious: “ _Julian Alfred Pankratz, is this how you treat your beloved parents?_ ”

“ _Mother_ —” Jaskier starts in his most wheedling tone.

“I had to learn _from your cousin_ that you had _eloped_ with _your Witcher_? Not even a _letter_! Not even a misplaced _note_ to find its way to us! Is this how we raised you? Is this how—” She gets a proper look at Geralt. “—oh, hello, do pardon the shouting, we don’t blame you for our son’s _outrageous flaunting of parental respect—_ ”

At that moment, Jaskier’s father ambles into the bedchamber, drawn by the noise. He blinks owlishly at the scene, then appears to have a shaking-fit of utter happiness and nearly bowls over his wife in his haste to greet Jaskier. “My son! My Julek! Oh, how wonderful to see you! We heard you got engaged! Congratulations! Is this your fiancé? Where are you? Oh, we’re so happy for you!”

If Jaskier gets his strong lungs from his mother, he gets his exuberance from his father. While the Viscountess de Lettenhove continues to alternately berate Jaskier and assure Geralt that _of course,_ they don’t blame him, the Viscount showers them with questions and joyful babbling, barely stopping for breath between sentences. Geralt’s vocal cords ache in sympathy.

Jaskier, of course, is squawking right back. The noise level is overwhelming.

*

It takes nearly an hour, but at long as last, it’s over. Jaskier’s parents seem to tolerate Geralt—or maybe they are just used to their son’s dubious decision-making and resigned to be happy for him no matter how foolishly he lives his life—so all in all, Geralt thinks it went rather well.

“We were lucky,” Jaskier assures him (which doesn’t feel particularly reassuring). “If we’d actually gotten married rather than just become engaged, Mum _would_ have found a way to reach through the mirror to strangle us both. Thank Melitele for small mercies.”

“You didn’t tell them it’s pretend.” Geralt only dares to say this aloud as they’re completely alone and outside immediate hearing range of any stray eavesdroppers.

Jaskier blinks. “It didn’t even occur to me. Should I have?”

A soft warmth spreads through Geralt. He must be coming down with something. Witcher influenza is not a joke. “It’s fine.”

*

When the Witchers of Kaer Morhen gather to vote on the surprise challenge, Jaskier pecks Geralt on the cheek, orders him to make him proud, then happily drags a very surprised Aiden off to the hot springs. It’s not that the voting is closed to them, exactly. It’s just that it usually devolves into a lot of yelling and growling, and Geralt would prefer that Jaskier doesn’t see him like that. He’s got enough ammunition already.

He immediately knows it was the right choice to send Jaskier away when the first thing he sees in Vesemir’s study is Lambert grinning maniacally at him from his seat. He does not look like he’s slept—and not because he’s been rolling around with Aiden. Geralt narrows his eyes.

The rest filter in soon after, Coën and Vesemir being the last ones. Vesemir will serve as the official judge, but in this one competition, Coën will have a vote as well—by virtue of not having been present for the issuing of said competition.

Someone has given Vesemir a wooden hammer. He fiddles with it much too enthusiastically. “Let the first challenge commence. Ciri, what have you brought for us?”

“A _knife_ ,” Ciri yells exuberantly and pulls what is most definitely not a knife but a ginormous sword out from under the table.

Because they’re all Witchers, there’s a lot of appreciative _hmm_ ing at the table. “A handsome… knife to be sure. But not exactly surprising,” Vesemir says, very, very gently.

“Oh, I know, but it’s not an ordinary knife. It’s forged in dragon-fire, Villentretenmerth gave it to me.”

Now, _that_ is surprising. Vesemir scribbles a note, conferring with Coën. “A fine entry. Eskel, you are next.”

To no surprise at all, Eskel has brought his wriggling pouch with him. As if it can sense that this is its time to shine, the pouch is also snuffling excitedly. With great showmanship, Eskel pulls a puppy from the pouch.

Everyone but Ciri instinctively scoot a few feet back from the table.

“This is Pupper,” Eskel says, petting the little monstrosity with hearts in his eyes. “He’s a shuck.”

There’s a lot of impressed nodding around the table. Shucks are a bit like ghost dogs—not quite at the level of barghests, which cannot be left to roam freely, but not quite an actual ghost either. They’re protective, loyal, and usually docile, as long as you don’t go digging up their chosen graveyards. In fact, if humanity had any sense, they’d try to keep shucks at hand; ghouls and graverobbers don’t stand a chance against them. Humanity, however, has very little common sense, and because shucks _look_ dangerous when they’re fully grown (and _become_ dangerous, when humans try to banish them), Witchers often get contracted to deal with them.

The fact that Eskel has managed to bond with one _is_ surprising. Shucks, as a rule, do not leave their graveyards, and pups are closely guarded. On the other hand, if any Witcher were to end up with a menagerie of stray animals, monstrous or otherwise, it would be Eskel, and that’s exactly what Vesemir notes. Eskel shrugs and keeps petting Pupper.

Then, there’s Lambert and Geralt, both of whom had already shown their hands immediately upon entering the keep. Vesemir asks some questions, all of which are easily answered, and that’s it. “We will confer,” Vesemir says, turning to Coën.

“Objection!” Lambert calls, as if they were before a judge.

For some reason, Vesemir indulges him. “Go on, then.”

Lambert turns to Geralt. Geralt glares. “Are any of us truly surprised that Geralt and the bard finally pulled their heads out their asses?”

Right then, Geralt should’ve seen it coming. But he doesn’t. ( _Again: everything is Lambert’s fault._ )

*

For almost an hour, Lambert argues in favour of him and Aiden being the bigger surprise than Geralt and Jaskier. Geralt, of course, argues against this, absolutely refusing to let go of his victory this easily. He’s so intent on holding on to it that he doesn’t realize just what kind of conclusion he’s being led to, and when he does, it’s far too late to protest it.

“… in fact, the only way this would’ve been a surprise would be if Geralt had actually married the bard,” Lambert says, still peacocking around like a lawyer at court.

“We became engaged _right before_ coming here,” Geralt repeats. He’s been saying this for the past hour and he’s getting really tired. At his wits’ end, he adds, “We didn’t have time to look for someone who’d officiate a Witcher.”

“So, if you’d stumbled on one such officiant, you’d have been married already?”

Stupidly, Geralt grinds out, “ _Yes_.”

Lambert pulls a small, slim book from underneath his chair, plopping it on the table dramatically. “Problem solved. Vesemir can do it.”

With dawning, horrifying realisation, Geralt flips the book open to the first page and stares. Stares some more. Tries to calm his breathing. Looks up at the entirely pitiless expression on Lambert’s face.

It’s a book on Witcher traditions. Specifically, on Witcher _marriage_ traditions _._

*

He has to get them out of this. This was _not_ the plan.

But Vesemir is saying, “It’s been centuries since I saw anything like that,” with an almost wistful air; Eskel is trying not to laugh but failing; Coën just looks entertained; and Ciri is _ecstatic_ , jumping up and down in her chair.

Geralt one and only defence is, “We can’t do it without Jaskier’s parents here.”

“ _Why am I here_?” Yennefer asks at that exact moment, stepping out of a portal with Triss on her heels.

“Oh, look, someone who can make a portal,” Lambert emphasizes gleefully. 

_Fuck_.

*

Jaskier laughs at him when he tells him. Laughs some more. Then says, “Wait, you’re not joking. We actually have to get married?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier starts laughing again. It’s distinctly more hysterical this time.

*

“Did you try telling them my parents—”

“Lambert sent for Yennefer so that she can portal them here.”

“Bloody _cock_.” Jaskier rubs his fingertips together, as he does when he’s unsure. “And Yennefer won’t help us out?”

“Going by the cackling… no.”

“Oh, cock. And _balls._ ”

*

Fifteen incredibly awful plans to escape Kaer Morhen later, Jaskier finally admits defeat. “You know what? Let’s just do it.”

“ _Hmm_.”

“Hear me out! It’s not like it changes much of anything, is it? We both know the score, we’re both in agreement—”

“Hmm.”

“—we _will_ _both be in agreement_ , we’ll play along, and when they’ve forgotten all about it: bam! Divorce!”

“They won’t forget.”

“You don’t know that—okay, so you’re probably right. Remind me again why you didn’t kill Lambert when you had the chance?”

“You don’t think I tried?”

“Damn. Resilient bastard. I got to admire him for that.” Jaskier sighs, then continues as if Geralt has already agreed, “You know, you should count yourself lucky to be able to call me husband. I am a gift to this world. Anyone would call it an honour if I deigned to spend my silver years with them.”

Geralt frowns. “Silver years?”

“Yeah, you know… let’s keep this between us, but I’m not quite young anymore. I’ve come this far, but I doubt the gods will let me keep my beautiful brown locks for long. But I’m sure I’ll be dashing when I go grey. A veritable fox of a man.”

Geralt hesitates; they don’t talk about this… but he has to ask, “Is that a nokk thing?”

Jaskier blinks. “A what thing? Is that a fashion thing? Scratch that—there’s no way you’d know something about fashion that I didn’t.”

Now Geralt is the one blinking stupidly. “A nokk thing. Because you’re half nokk.”

“I beg thy fucking pardon?”

*

For the second time that day, Geralt gets dragged in front of the magical mirror. They encounter Yennefer and Triss on the way; Jaskier air kisses them both, forgetting his outrage for a brief, brief moment, then rushes onwards, towing Geralt by the hand. Yen and Triss wave cheerfully at them, godsdamned enablers whom he should’ve never introduced Lambert to.

The mirror is much more co-operative this time around, possibly because it finds Jaskier amusing in his fit of pique. His cheeks are flushed with colour, his eyes appear to be almost glowing, and he’s still holding Geralt’s hand—the latter is not something the mirror has an opinion on, but it’s something that Geralt can’t help but notice. Now, standing still, Jaskier is still holding on to him. Not to keep him there, just to stay close. Geralt’s skin is getting warm again. He really needs to have Vesemir check him over for the flu.

“ _Mother_!” Jaskier wails the second the Viscountess appears, this time looking rather more composed at her son’s sudden appearance. “ _Did you know_?”

Geralt nudges him. “Context, Jask.”

“ _Did you know I was half nokk_?”

The Viscountess blinks. “Half what?”

“ _Nokk_. It’s—actually, that’s a good question. What _is_ a nokk, Geralt?”

Melitele’s tits. This is the man Geralt turned to in his hour of need. Restraining the urge to roll his eyes, he explains to the rapt Pankratzes—for Jaskier’s father has also appeared—that a nokk is a northern type of water spirit. They’re usually male, though all genders are possible, and they use music to lure in lovers (or prey.) They’re not immortal, but certainly long-lived.

“Well?” Jaskier demands of his mother.

The Viscountess isn’t paying him any attention, however; she’s turned towards her husband with her brows raised. He raises his own back, and they nod at each other. “That makes sense,” the Viscountess says. “We didn’t know he was a nokk, though. Looked very human to us.”

“You _both_ knew him?”

“Well, in the more… euphemistic sense of the word—” the Viscount says with a dreamy glint in his eye. His wife shares the look, smiling salaciously.

Jaskier’s jaw drops and he claps his hands over his ears. “Oh, my god, Geralt make them stop. You are both _disinvited_ from the wedding!”

The Viscountess rounds on her son. “‘Wedding’? _Julian Alfred Pankratz, so help me god, you better not be getting married without us there_ —”

So, Geralt guesses he’s getting married. To Jaskier.

His chest feels weird. Right around his heart. Hmm. Must be more ill than he thought.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i give u.... THE CONCLUSION TO OUR TALE
> 
> warnings:  
> \- sexual content  
> \- Geralt procrastinating his emotional epiphany like a champ  
> \- the hurdy-gurdy finally fulfilling its destiny  
> \- pop culture references

With the combined efforts of one bard, six Witchers, a lost princess, two sorceresses, two nobles, and a mixture of ruthless competence (the Viscountess) and unbounded enthusiasm (the Viscount), they get the wedding together in about a week. It could’ve been done in a couple of days, but Jaskier gets obstinate about certain details, such as “if I cannot get the Aebbae troupe here to play _The Tale of the Dancing Queen_ , then I shan’t have any music. Except for the sweet melody I’ll make on my hurdy-gurdy.”

If Geralt had thought it would be a small, quick affair, he’s proven wrong the second the Viscountess—whom he has finally been informed is named Marianna—meets Vesemir, and the two start planning it all out to respect both Witcher and Redanian traditions as much as possible. With that meeting, a true hurricane of competence descends on Kaer Morhen, and the preparations for what is quickly shaping up to become ‘quite the affair’, are swiftly undertaken.

Yennefer and Triss become the uncomplaining (and well-paid, because Marianna insisted, and Yennefer had no qualms about taking her money) portal-upholders between Kaer Morhen and Lettenhove, helping the Pankratzes cross each morning and evening. Geralt once asks why they’re willing to expend so much energy on a wedding that they both _know_ is for show. _Once._

“Geralt,” Yennefer says with a sniff. “What is Jaskier to you?”

Sensing a trap, Geralt very slowly answers, “He’s my friend.”

“And you’d marry any of your friends?”

“If they needed me to.”

“And does Jaskier need you to?”

Well, no, but Geralt needs Jaskier to marry him to win the surprise challenge, why must Yennefer rehash this?

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “You could’ve just told Lambert you were waiting for the summer equinox. You’d have won the competition and still been able to back out of the engagement.”

“Why would we wait for the summer equinox when winter is closer?”

“Are you really making arguments _for_ marrying Jaskier while trying to convince me it’s all pretend?”

“Don’t push them, Yenna,” Triss advices from the other side of the room.

Geralt frowns at Yen and quickly finds something else to do. He doesn’t like that line of questioning.

Lambert, gleeful at first, soon changes his mind about the entire ordeal as Marianna takes charge. She is not once afraid of ordering the Witchers around, and for reasons none of them can explain, when she says ‘jump’, they all make flying leaps on the spot.

“She’s scarier than Vesemir,” Lambert exclaims hysterically the day they’re rearranging the tables in the great hall. Soon, there’ll be more people in attendance than Kaer Morhen has seen in a century, and it’ll be a much happier gathering than when the Witcher school was open. “ _How_ is a human woman of no particular battle prowess scarier than Vesemir?”

“She wields disappointment like a battle axe,” Eskel says, juggling a chair, Pupper, and a small goat called Lil’ Bleater. Geralt doesn’t know when they started keeping goats, and at this point, he’s afraid to ask. “Now put your back into it. If we mess up the floor plan, Marianna will give us _the look_.”

Geralt spends most of his time being relieved that he doesn’t have to do anything except _exactly_ what he’s told. Vesemir, Marianna, and Simon, Jaskier’s father, have it all under control. Or, well, Vesemir and Marianna have it all under control; Simon has to be constantly watched by at least one Witcher lest he wander off a cliff. Coën takes his eyes off him for _one_ second, and they almost have to fish him out of the well. Clearly, Jaskier takes after his father (Jaskier denies this, but he is not to be trusted.)

*

A solid week of toil and exhaustion later, Geralt finally gets to touch Jaskier again. Just in time, too. Judging by the amounts of spirits that have been unearthed, they will not have the wits to do anything except collapse on their wedding night, so tonight, the night before, will have to do.

Jaskier wriggles his brows and makes incredibly unsubtle gestures at the bed. Geralt is tempted to play dumb, but honestly, why bother? He’s long since admitted to himself that Jaskier’s ridiculousness works for him, and there’s no reason to play coy now.

He lets Jaskier pull him in, going easily where he leads. He tastes like the sweet wine he’s so partial to, and the mint and sage he uses to clean his teeth. After months of familiarizing themselves with each other’s bodies, Geralt knows exactly how to kiss him, exactly how Jaskier will meet his touches. He licks into Jaskier’s mouth, savouring his moans against his tongue.

He ends up straddling Jaskier’s chest, thrusting shallowly into his mouth. All the while, Jaskier’s hands paint his skin with devotion, cupping his ass, his hip, his chest, thumbing his nipples or holding his cock steady as Jaskier sucks him in. Jaskier doesn’t like it too deep like this, but he’s perfectly happy to lick and kiss his cock all over until Geralt’s brain leaks from his ears. 

(Even if Jaskier sometimes stops in the middle of things to ask, “Why is it that only some of your body hair is white when most of it is dark? Really, you’re lucky your eyebrows stayed like that, you’d hardly be able to glower as impressively otherwise—”)

Geralt can spot one such musing coming now, so he pulls away from Jaskier’s mouth and slips back down the bed to settle between Jaskier’s spread thighs, thoroughly distracting him. They’re sure to be getting noise complaints in the morning, but Geralt couldn’t care less. He slicks up his fingers and makes Jaskier sing so sweetly.

(Perhaps, were Geralt a more fanciful man, he’d call this making love. He distracts himself from any such epiphanies.)

When Jaskier is ready, and impatiently so, Geralt slicks himself and falls into his arms. Fingers twined, faces close, close enough to kiss. He rocks into Jaskier, moaning every time Jaskier tightens deliberately around him, every time he arches his back and begs for Geralt to go faster.

He grabs Geralt’s arm, the one with the arm ring, and digs his fingers in. Starlight explodes behind Geralt’s closed eyes, and he falls forward to suck Jaskier’s earlobe into his mouth. It’s so soft; it’s got a tiny little puncture, from when Jaskier tried to pierce his ears as a youth. It makes Jaskier gasp, he’s so sensitive.

When he starts digging his heels into the back of Geralt’s thighs, Geralt knows he’s close. Foreheads pressed together, he slips one hand down to angle Jaskier’s hips just so. The noises he makes… gods, if he doesn’t stop, Geralt won’t make it, and he has to, he _must_ see to Jaskier’s pleasure first.

But with Jaskier’s hand in his hair, holding firmly, and Jaskier’s eyes locked on his and his throat bared, that objective seems less and less likely. He cheats; reaches for Jaskier’s cock and chuffs with victory as Jaskier finally, finally comes, begging Geralt to follow him. And he does. (He always will.)

*

After—when they’ve cleaned up, bickered about who gets doomed to lie in the wet spot, and finally curled up together on the dry side of the bed—Jaskier sighs happily and says, “That was _exactly_ the way I’d want to get fucked before my impending wedding under any other circumstance. Not that I’d have a wedding under any other circumstance, of course. Geralt, if anyone ever tries to marry me, stab them.”

“Don’t think you can get married twice,” Geralt mumbles, too busy snuffling at Jaskier’s hair. He smells so good like this, like sex and satisfaction, and a whole lot like Geralt himself.

“Good point.” If exhalations can be called smug, Jaskier would be master of such sighs. He presses a kiss to Geralt’s jaw. “This really is the gift that keeps on giving.”

“You don’t sound like someone in favour of marriage.”

Jaskier shrugs. “It’s just not for me, is all.”

Geralt stops snuffling at him. “But you’re marrying me.”

“Well, of course! It’s _you_.”

Geralt feels another of those damned epiphanies rise at the back of his mind, which is _not allowed_ , so to stall it, he blurts out. “Same. I—it’s the same for me.”

“Me and you,” Jaskier promises. “Despite your outrageous snoring.”

“Hmm.” It means, _is that really a conversation you want to have? Because you are_ not _a silent sleeper._

“That’s an outrageous claim! How dare you!”

With that, they turn to wrestling. Which turns to another kind of wrestling entirely. Safe to say, they don’t get a lot of sleep that night.

*

The very next morning, the first thing they do is to regret that they got so little sleep, because Geralt’s brothers wake them up by storming in, ripping the blankets off the bed, and then shrieking when they come tumbling out, naked.

“ _MY EYES_ ,” Lambert wails, as if he has never seen Geralt in a worse state than nudity.

“How could you do this to us?” Eskel asks, shaking Geralt’s shoulder while looking in the other direction. “What if we’d brought Ciri?”

Jaskier says, “I know we’ll be vowing that what’s yours is mine, etcetera, etcetera, but that’s hours away, and those are very much _your_ brothers, _you deal with them_.”

Except Geralt’s brothers have not come alone; three tall women come stomping in after them, only seconds after Geralt has managed to cover himself and Jaskier with the blankets. They’re dark-haired and pretty, and their gazes lock on Geralt at once. He forces himself not to reach for a knife.

“Oh, he’s a pretty one, Julek,” one of them says.

“Those are _yours_ , Jask,” Geralt says and quickly makes his exit before Jaskier’s sisters can get a hold of him.

“ _Traitor!_ ”

“I don’t know why we ever trusted in his skincare advice,” another one of them says. “When _clearly_ we should’ve known he was cheating all along.”

Another agrees, “Truly, it is a crime that he didn’t have to endure more years of spotty skin. Longer life spans should mean more time spent in the throes of teenage calamities.”

“ _I hate you all_ ,” Jaskier hisses at them.

*

After countless tortures—including assisted bathing (because apparently he cannot be trusted to do it properly himself), assisted dressing (same reason), and assisted hair-braiding (really, it’s like they don’t trust him at all)—Geralt is led to the great hall, blind-folded.

While they wait for Jaskier, who is just moments behind him, Geralt’s brothers try to imbue him with truly horrible advice (“always present your kills to your husband first, the clients second. What do you _mean_ he gets squeamish about blood?”). Above the din, there’s the sound of Jaskier’s family, his parents and sisters, their spouses and children and even grandchildren. Geralt fears for the structural integrity of the keep, besieged by so many tiny Pankratzes (and Simon.)

Geralt is dressed in a seemingly unending number of layers, some of them brand new, some of them ceremonial clothes that Vesemir managed to unearth from gods know where. Even in the cool, northern winter air, Geralt feels warm, covered in embroidered linen, durable cotton, and even some silk and leather. All are in dark colours, black and deep blue.

The most important pieces are the handsome, fitted buff coat and the heavy mantle lined with fur. It exposes one shoulder, allowing him to show off his engagement arm ring, worn over his sleeve for the occasion. On his head, he wears a wreath of hawthorn—a Redanian tradition.

So is the blindfolding; Redanians say it’s bad luck for spouses-to-be to see each other in their wedding clothes before the vows are spoken. Ciri is at his side, ready to lead him forward when the time comes.

“Here he comes,” she whispers, despite knowing that Geralt can hear Jaskier’s approach. He’s been listening to his heartbeat (and bickering) all morning; it’s the only thing that’s kept him from storming out. “Here we go.”

Robbed of sight, Geralt takes Jaskier in with his other senses. He smells like the flowers and leaves from his own wedding wreath, green and spring-like; he sounds amused, judging by the hitch in his breathing and the laugh in his hums. Always so noisy, Geralt’s bard.

“Everybody! Seats!” one of Jaskier’s sisters cries, and there’s a scramble as everybody fall in. Even Roach has been brought into the great hall for the occasion, very confused as to what’s happening but willing to endure it for the sake of sweet oats. Silence settles over the hall; candles are lit by magic, both the Witchers’ and the sorceresses’; Vesemir takes his place and starts the ceremony.

Ciri guides Geralt forward and puts his hands in Jaskier’s.

Later, Geralt won’t be able to recall what was said, not even the vows. Instead, he’ll recall the smell of Jaskier’s skin, the traces of Geralt’s own scent on him which hasn’t washed out in weeks. He’ll recall the feel of Jaskier’s hands in his, the slightly sweaty palms and the firm grasp. He’ll remember thinking, _I’m_ _not alone._

It feels suspiciously like the epiphany he’d shut down the night before is trying to sneak up on him. Geralt very sternly tells it to back off. No emotional meltdowns are allowed before spring, at the very earliest.

Somehow, Jaskier must sense Geralt’s inner turmoil, for he squeezes his hands and pulls him out of his head. Geralt can’t see his smile, but still somehow, he thinks he can feel it. His own mouth pulls up in return.

They speak the vows together, rehearsed over the past week. Geralt’s voice doesn’t shake, doesn’t waver, and Jaskier’s is clear and strong. Ciri is the one to remove Geralt’s blindfold, Marianne Jaskier’s.

Geralt sucks in a surprised breath. Jaskier isn’t dressed quite like Geralt is; his wine-red ensemble is centred around a heavy, tunic-like garment (which Geralt is later informed is called a cotehardie) with elaborate sleeves and a round neckline. It’s elegantly patterned; Jaskier looks almost prince-like in it, especially combined with the crown of myrtle in his hair. He’s beaming at Geralt, eyebrow raised daringly.

“Kiss him, you oaf!” Lambert yells, grunting when Aiden elbows him.

Jaskier starts forward, draws Geralt down with both hands; not to be undone, Geralt lifts him off his feet. The outraged squeak is music to his ears.

*

Though both Jaskier and Marianna assures him that the feast is quite small compared to most wedding parties amongst the nobility, to Geralt, it seems an insurmountable amount of food—though of course, with six Witchers in attendance, that’s debateable. The great hall has been transformed, draped with flowers (which Triss receives many a compliment for) and candles. Everybody is dressed as if for a royal feast, and the noise is unbelievable. Geralt has to hide his face in Jaskier’s neck a few times and just breathe.

Jaskier enthusiastically throws Geralt to the wolves (children), encouraging him to tell them stories of his hunts and preening when Geralt sends him increasingly distressed looks. The little Pankratzes are _not_ shy, and he’s got at least one attached to his mantle at all times. In return, Geralt interrupts Jaskier’s own storytelling with, “hmm, that’s not how I remember it”, making his husband sputter and puff up like an insulted rooster.

At one point, Eskel (who shall henceforth be referred to only as The Traitor), says, “Bard, has Geralt ever told you the name he wanted to take before Vesemir made him settle on Geralt of Rivia?” He starts running before Geralt can tackle him, shouting over his shoulder, “Geralt Roger—”

“—Eric du Haute—” Lambert continues, also getting up and running.

And Vesemir, the last bastion of good sense, finishes it with, “—Bellegarde.”

Jaskier turns to Geralt with utter glee in his eyes, and Geralt is _this_ close to demanding a divorce on the spot. (But Jaskier’s sisters are quick to offer a slew of embarrassing childhood stories, so he forgets about that quickly.)

When it comes to the wedding dance—not accompanied by the Aebbae troupe, much to Jaskier’s theatrical outrage—Geralt learns something new about his husband. Which is that without a lute in his hands, Jaskier has absolutely no sense of either rhythm or tempo, and to call what he’s doing ‘dancing’ is to do dancing a disservice. He’s very into whatever he’s doing, but also very close to doling out several injuries in the process. Geralt can’t believe he has to be the one to lead—something he only knows how to do because Ciri has made him dance with her before.

Meanwhile, the drink flows freely.

(He’d like to blame the last shots of white gull on Lambert, but sadly, he cannot remember who poured them.)

*

“Oops, wrong door!” Jaskier giggles and leads Geralt further down the hall. Geralt has complete faith he’ll find the right one; his husband is a master of… of _a number_ of liberal arts, he graduated with honours from Oxenfurt Academy, and Geralt will follow him to every wrong door in the keep to prove his faith in him!

They’re both drunk out of their skulls, and more than a little sweaty and sleepy from the long day. Jaskier’s hair stands up in tufts around his wedding wreath, and his cotehardie is open to reveal the lacy undershirt underneath. They’d been sent to bed when Geralt started running his fingers over the stitching on said undershirt.

Three wrong doors later, they finally stumble into their room, immediately shedding boots and the many, many layers of heavy overclothes. They keep stumbling into each other, laughing at nothing. Geralt pauses constantly to bump their heads together as gently as he can just to hear Jaskier coo.

“Geraaaaalt,” he whines, having fallen over on the bed, pants around his thighs. “I’m stuckkkk.”

It had taken several people to get them into their wedding clothes, and it takes the both of them to get them out of them. Jaskier is impatient enough to suggest just using a knife; Geralt has enough wits left to remember that Jaskier should never have access to knives, so he rips the ceremonial knife from his belt and throws it over his shoulder, pretending he doesn’t know where it is.

“You’re not allowed knifes,” he tries to tell Jaskier.

“You’re not the boss of me!”

“No, I’m your husband.”

Jaskier beams. “My _husband_.”

“Hmm.” He bumps their head together again. How’d his hands settle on Jaskier’s neck? How is Jaskier’s body so elegant and lovely? It was such a good choice to ask Jaskier to be his fake fiancé. Fake husband? Well, the ceremony was real enough. Fake-real husband. It’s very complicated.

Jaskier snickers. Geralt might have said that out loud. He presses kisses to Jaskier’s jaw and tells him he’s pretty. Jaskier very seriously tells him, “I know.” Geralt nods; of course Jaskier knows. He’s very smart.

With much fumbling, they manage to get the rest of their clothes off. The wreaths somehow manage to stay on until last, and these are removed with utmost delicacy (which, in drunks, isn’t that much delicacy a all. The wreathes aren’t ruined, and that’s the important thing.)

Geralt paws at his hair. “ _Jask_. Braids.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically. “You’re so lucky I love you. Come here, darling.”

Geralt sits down in front of him.

It takes him several minutes to understand what Jaskier just said. When he does, something sharp and bright and fierce fills his chest; as if his heart has been replaced by the sun itself. (The epiphany he’s been putting off strikes and the world makes sense.) He doesn’t even consider that it could be a slip of the tongue, that Jaskier could’ve meant it differently. He just hastens to say, “Same.” His voice is very rough. “Me, too. For you.”

Jaskier kisses his hair. “I know, dear heart. I know, I know.”

“ _No_.” Must emphasise. “ _Love_ you.”

That makes Jaskier pause, fingers tangled in Geralt’s hair. Then, for some ungodly reason, he starts to laugh. “I think I’d _know_ if you loved me like that!”

“You didn’t know you were a nokk.”

“How dare you use that against me! I know things, Geralt! Many things! Like, like—I love you like the moon loves the sea, like Witchers love honey cakes, like—I _know_ love, and I’d _know_ if you loved me, ‘cause I’ve loved you, I loved you _first_!”

Geralt, mulish but elated, just hums and shakes his head. Jaskier, outraged now, demands to know how _dare_ Geralt disagree with him. Crawls into Geralt’s lap to tell him just what he thinks of such insolence—and gets derailed, because Geralt kisses him. It’s the very best way to shut Jaskier up when he starts getting ridiculous.

“I love you. I’m so glad you proposed to me. Fake proposed. But real love. ‘s why I said yes. ‘Cus you’re my friend and I love you, but like a husband loves… a husband.”

Geralt nods very seriously. His hum means, _I understand_.

Jaskier cups his face. “You’re the best husband.” He’s quiet for a beat, then, “Will you let me have some of your bacon tomorrow?”

“ _Hmm_.”

“If you loved me, you’d let me have your bacon.”

“… hm.”

“Oh, my gods, you love me so much. This is the _best_.”

*

Because they’re both hungover the next morning (white gull is the devil’s brew—fucking _Lambert_ ), it takes a while for them to remember just what they’d confessed the night before. Instead, they spend their first conscious moments whining (Jaskier), breathing horrible morning breath at each other (both of them), and trying to quietly die (Geralt).

Jaskier is the first to remember. They’re both sitting on the bed, unenthusiastically swilling water infused with sage and mint to clear their mouths of the hairy ball of death that’s taken up residence there. Jaskier spits into a bowl, sniffs the air, and grimaces. “Oh god, they’re cooking bacon. I don’t know if that makes me want to die or— _holy fucking shit, you_ love _me?_ ”

*

Because Jaskier wouldn’t be Jaskier if he didn’t commit to tomfoolery to an almost painful degree, he spends the entire morning accosting the hungover inhabitants of Kaer Morhen to tell them that: “Geralt loves me. He told me so. With _words._ ”

The reactions are varied. Eskel, Coën, Vesemir, and Aiden all nod cautiously and eye them like they’ve lost their minds. Lambert squints and says, “Wait, what do you mean—” in a tone of voice that warns of impending brain activity, so Geralt spirits Jaskier away from him before he can come to any conclusions about the origin of their surprise. (What? Winning the winter games is just as important as realizing that you’re in love with your best friend and husband.) Yennefer laughs, winces because the sound makes her head hurt, and says, “I’d almost lost faith you’d ever realize it,” while Triss congratulates them both. She is Geralt’s favourite. Ciri rolls her eyes at them with a, “Uh, _yeah_.” Her tone makes it clear just how insipid she finds this news.

Thank every god in creation that Jaskier’s family had been transported home last night, or Jaskier might have made a production out of presenting Geralt’s admission to every single one of them, from his parents to his baby great-niece.

“I’m going to make a song about this,” Jaskier vows.

To avert that disaster, Geralt says, “Lambert wanted to hear you play the hurdy-gurdy.”

*

At the end of the winter, Geralt is declared the winner of the surprise challenge, while Eskel is the overall winner. Lambert sulks for a full day—or at least, that’s what he’d like his brothers to think; in reality, he’s canoodling with his boyfriend. Yennefer and Triss departed for warmer weather some weeks ago, Yennefer exhorting an unspecified favour from Geralt for keeping his secret. Ciri has largely mastered her dragon-forced sword; almost no flesh-wounds occur during training anymore.

And Jaskier? Jaskier finishes his song to Geralt. It’s called _Fair._ It’s not a disaster at all.

(Lambert will _not_ be getting the credit for any of this.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] winnings and weddings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28548078) by [Chantress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chantress/pseuds/Chantress)




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